


aquarius \ 18 \ bi

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Gaping, Bisexual Dean, Blindfolds, Bondage, Bottom Dean, Breathplay, Chastity Device, Dom Cain, Dom Sam, Double Anal Penetration, Exhibitionist Dean, M/M, Multi, Open Marriage, Oral Fixation, Promiscuity, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Soulless Sam Winchester, Spanking, Sub Dean, Twink Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 14:53:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6524650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cain and Sam spend a weekend with a boy Cain chatted up online. (Happy birthday, my queen ♥.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	aquarius \ 18 \ bi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bloodandcream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/gifts).



We found Dean through his porn blog. By 'we' I mean basically _me_ , of course, even though it was your idea to 'ask him out'. With 'his porn blog', I mean Dean's online sex diary. Kind of. He likes to post pictures. Frequently. His bio in the sidebar states he's eighteen but the earlier pictures must have been from a while ago. None of his many followers - us included - would do as much as _consider_ calling him out for it.

On our doorstep, he looks positively fucked up; some sweat on his forehead from the afternoon heat and the admittedly steep, rough path that curls up to our house. Not in the mountains completely, no, because you don't share my fondness for solitude, but the kid knew what he was getting himself into. He's smart and quick with his questions. I liked him from the very start, even before we started texting. His blog had just started up and I stumbled across him by sheer luck - he uses an abundance of hashtags, many of which I browse on a regular basis. For research, of course. For hook ups, of course. The internet is such a blessed place. I saved that first picture and often found myself opening it up during our chats, tried to connect the image of that boy - staring into the lens of his own camera right over the shoulder of some other guy, mouth so wide and luscious and eyes filled with just the perfect amount of recalcitrance and lust - with the words he directed at me, tried to imagine his voice I knew from those few rare videos with actual audio in it. And now he's here. Right in front of me.

"Hey, old man," he purrs, all cocky grin and dangerous glint in his eyes, so obviously pleased with himself and his youth. It's not the first time we have a 'visitor' of his kind but he's definitely the youngest so far (couldn't get much younger than him). He cocks his hip as he readjusts the rucksack dangling from his left shoulder, casually flexes his bicep while he's at it, just because he can. His lashes droop some as he looks around and gives an almost distant, "Nice place you've got there." Distant because we both know he won't see much of the property this weekend and because we both know the view from up here is not the reason for his visit.

I say, "Thank you," nevertheless. I know my manners. I also know Dean likes to see me as an elderly gentleman, a calm but stirring soul. He knows me well, maybe better than I know him. He might be better at online conversations but I surely know how to handle actual, personal contact. We are very different due to our difference in age and experience, but our minds work alike. I've seen that from the very start. I step aside and gesture inside. He enters immediately. His movements are smooth and full of confidence. As I close the door behind him, I relish on the dark spot his sweat soaked through his faded orange shirt right in between his shoulder blades. He's scanning the place and makes his way without my directions, so I simply follow, let his curiosity get its fill. I can only imagine how the mix between your and my aesthetical tastes must look to other people. I myself have long grown accustomed to it.

Dean strides through the corridor, living room, bares a glance into kitchen and out to the patio as if it's his own home and someone did as little as moving the furniture around a bit. He's comfortable with the place, and that is good. He knows about our preferences, so maybe the dark interior isn't upsetting him too much. I watch him closely, pay attention to possible sudden tensing in shoulders, in stuttered steps, stiffness. But - nothing.

"The bedroom is upstairs."

"Want me to change there?"

"Whatever you are comfortable with."

The kid lets his backpack drop down right where he stands without any finesse, like coming home from school or soccer practice (Dean wrestles, though) and just tossing everything everywhere for a fuming mother to take care of. He glances into my direction then, turns a little to do that, and the corners of his mouth curl upwards as he gets a hold of his shirt. A now bare-chested boy is standing in our living room, toes his sneakers off and makes short work of his belt and fly of his jeans, and I watch him from the other end of said room. He looks warm, sun-kissed and pool-bleached, and he's mine for the entire weekend. Ours. It sounds like a bad erotica story, but it is in fact reality. That's how my life seems to go more often than not. I stopped worrying about it for quite a while now.

_d: interesting name. you killed your brother or smthng?_

_c: Not that I know of. My parents had a strange sense of humor._

_d: it's cool. I dunno, I kinda like it. has a mysterious touch to it._

_c: Is that what made you reply? My mysteriousness?_

_d: that and your eyes. fuck damn. blue makes my knees weak, dude. so innocent ;)_

_c: "Innocent" is not what you are looking for, is it?_

_d: lmao. not really, nope. you know my blog. guess I can't fool you._

_c: I'm familiar with it, yes. It's breathtaking. You are a terribly handsome young man. I can only imagine how elated those girls and boys from your pictures must have been to be able to spend time with you._

_d: thanks dude. well I try my best to make it worthwhile, y'know ;)_

_c: I am not as young as them, though._

_d: yeah I know._

_c: Is that not a problem for you? You only ever post pictures of you with fellow young people._

_d: hmmmm there's a first time for everything, old man ;)_

Dean lacks tan lines and a basic sense of demureness. He smirks at me across the room, naked and so beautiful I could not take my eyes off him if someone threatened to bash my head in if I didn't.

"Like something you see?"

I have to lean against the doorframe to get my composure back and keep my poker face strong. I want to say 'even better than in the pictures' but that would be a lie, because those pictures are works of art and I would never spill anything but pure adoration for them, so I decide for, "I like your jewelry."

This draws a smirk from him, of course. One of his wiry hands goes for his junk, squeezes it to draw my attention to it (as if there was a need to do that). "Have been wearin' it for a week," he informs me, "just like you said."

He sent me pictures; I know. I have listened to his complaints, his second thoughts, and I managed to get him through all of it with sweet, sweet promises. I intend to keep them all. I tell him, "Good boy," and my dick softly throbs in my pants at the smoothness Dean's face earns with the words.

Dean is not your typical daddy-issue boy. He does have some, sure, but he's not wearing them printed to his forehead. He likes attention. He likes praise. Others drink water - Dean drinks affection. We haven't talked about it. There are things you don't _have_ to address when you watch over a blog as intimate as Dean's. Maybe he knows that I know; I am not sure. If he does, he doesn't mind that I do. Either way, it works out perfectly. I couldn't have dreamed of a better basis.

The kid's smirk melts into a lovely pout. "Wasn't easy, y'know."

Oh, and how very _much_ I do know.

Stirring of feet. His sorry caged cock and his smooth balls are still in his hand. Like a child holding on to the edge of its mother's skirt. "Y'better make it worth it."

"I will."

"Hm." Change again; back to smirk, to know-it-all. A tongue darts between his lips. "Where's the other guy?"

"He will join us later."

"Busy?"

"No need for you to concern yourself with it."

A shrug. "Okay."

I wonder if Dean would be this relaxed with just anyone; if he would come to anyone's private property in the middle of nowhere and strip naked in the middle of their living room. Something tells me he would because he is young and foolish; something else chastises me for thinking so poorly of him. Me and him have been chatting intensively for almost two months now. We established somewhat of a bond. He trusts me. _Me_. You report to me you guys get along, too, but you've only started exchanging messages after I introduced the idea about an actual, real life meeting to Dean; thus introducing my partner to Dean. And as I wonder about these things, I just fall so much more deeper for this odd, wonderful kid.

He cocks his eyebrows at me. "Wanna get it started?"

I shift against the doorframe, ground myself with a curl of toes into our tatami mat floor. Time to get this started, yes. Time to go into my destined mindset. "Do _you_ want to?"

"I dunno," he shrugs, "whatever. I'm ready for whatever."

I have to smile at that because he _means_ what he says. He's loose-limbed eighteen years, big green eyes and laid-back jock swagger and knows that 'whatever' could mean so many things, some of which he (allegedly) never tried. I've already wanted to make him cry before he was only a few steps away from me. Now, the urge is making my blood roar in my veins. I walk over to him because I can, do it lightly and smooth, and my arms are still crossed in front of my chest as I come to a halt right before him. He's as tall as me, maybe stretching higher in some years' time. Our bodies are not touching, not yet, but I feel the heat radiating off of him, the soft shine of sweat on perfect, tight skin. I bathe in the sight of his freckles, the push-pull of his eyes. I make him wait because I can.

Dean only moves when I do and he does so at the first hint of me leaning into his space. His eyes drift closed easily, savoring. I watch it while our mouths connect, while I feel the plush of his lips for the first time. His jaw drops like an opening present and his tongue swirls with finesse such a young person shouldn't possess. I take and take, and his spit is slick, warm, and if my cock wasn't starting to get ready yet, it sure is now.

Dean has a tag for pictures involving his mouth. I have seen it mushed against pussies or asses, have seen his tongue stuck out wide to lap or lips pursed tight to suck (cocks, pencils, fingers, toes). Your favorite is the gifset of him sucking off the jelly dildo I sent to him for our first month 'not-anniversary'. My favorite is him with his hair sweat-stuck to his forehead, staring up into the camera from in between some brunette's legs where she's sitting on him; hint of his upper lip and flash of teeth because he's opened his mouth so wide you would think he wants to devour the poor girl. The kid is hungry like that.

I hear him make a soft sound somewhere deep down his throat when I pull back, as if he missed the contact already, missed _me_ already. Of course he is simply horny. "Have you decided on a safe word yet?"

"'Impala'," he mutters, all kitten-soft and for me.

"Alright. Don't ever hesitate to use it. Neither Sam nor I will denounce you if you do; keep this in mind, please." I dare my fingertips to reach out and brush Dean's arm. I watch his lashes flutter as he opens his eyes just a tiny slit wide to watch me in return. "This is all about you. _Your_ pleasure. _Your_ safety. We want to make you feel good. We all want to have a good time together."

His lips quiver ever-so slightly. When he speaks, I know he's holding back a smile. "Is this the part where I say 'yes, master'?"

Tatami mats. "Certainly," I breathe.

It explodes on his mouth now, that delicate curl, a smile, showing off the very edge of his perfect teeth. And just to fuck with me, just because he knows exactly how beautiful he is, he repeats with his eyes all demurely, "Yes, master."

Dean is our plaything for the weekend. Not exactly a sub, no; we agreed on some elements he'd like to try but he is not a classical submissive. Even though we are highly experienced in all kinds of the art while he has barely started getting sexually active at all, it's no doubt who is getting more out of the deal here. It's not his inexperience that makes Dean so attractive for us, though (well, at least for me). What strikes us so hard is his obvious willingness to try out _everything_ ; in our case: bdsm and older men. We are lucky to be first in line, that's all. We don't have illusions and we love it that Dean doesn't, either.

"Hands on the couch," and I put my forefinger to said furniture's armrest, "ass out."

He stretches as he obeys. I decide he likes the position as much as I enjoy seeing him in the position. His back arches. He could be graceful if he wasn't so entirely pornographic.

I step behind him and let my knuckles graze over the swell of his ass. It pops out just a little higher. Even if I could, I would not press my body against him. That would be too vulgar. I'm his gentleman.

He's quiet. I like that because I know he's not the quiet type. He is like that for _me_.

"Let's see." I uncurl my other arm from the hold around my chest. Both of my thumbs place themselves on either cheek of his ass, close to where they meet in a promising crease. I think I know already but I want to celebrate every little moment with him, want to celebrate _him_. He is so willing to please. My other fingers gently push on the outsides to give my hands steadiness, and then my thumbs dig in and pull outwards. Again, he opens up to me. I feast my eyes on the sight of his dutifully waxed skin; spotless from tailbone to beginning of balls (which he shaved, I assume). One of the many firsts Dean is taking upon himself for us, with us. I praise with a, "Just like I ordered. Very good," drawl the words with the lust that is undeniable, that I _want_ him to hear, to be aware of. His hips tilt even lower when I bring one of my thumbs right on the tenderness, rub up and down here to really get a feel for just how slick his sweat is making this hidden place. He purrs a sound and humps up against my thumb as if he was willing it to penetrate him. I grant him a denser pressure but don't slip inside, keep up the slide up and down. It feels like a promise, like comfort when I croon, "Not yet."

Dean's back is working in the corner of my vision; he shifts in his position. " _Please_."

"Not yet," I repeat. My cock fattens with every pass over the pucker of Dean's asshole. If I were you, I'd already be knuckle-deep inside the kid; but I'm not. I am slower. I prefer dwelling in what I have. "I know you told me, but let me hear it again. You really didn't touch yourself? Not even here?"

He shakes his head.

"Where's the key to the cage?"

"In my wallet."

"Fetch it for me."

When he turns and bends to retrieve the desired object, I find Dean's cheeks softly flushed. He is more sensitive than I had assumed, judging by the frequent change of his partners. So he is still keeping himself some sort of untaintedness, after all. I like that. He drops the double set of keys into my outstretched palm and watches it disappear into the front pocket of my pants; must see the bulge there, doesn't look surprised. No, he just brings his eyes back to mine, looks at me with a wonderful mix of relief and anticipation. I can only imagine how a kid with a libido like Dean must feel like after a week of chastity.

His lidded eyes switch between my eyes and my mouth. "Will you let me out at some point?"

I say, "Maybe," but honestly haven't thought about it just yet. Especially when you are involved (but also when I'm by myself), it seems easier to just let things come the way they come. Clearly, my answer is neither what Dean would have wanted to hear nor what he was afraid of hearing. A glint of hope is always good for a sub to hang on to. _Maybe_ I'll unlock you. _Maybe_ I'll touch your beautiful, beautiful cock. _Maybe_ I'll let you come. Keeps them going. Keeps them on their toes. Not that Dean would need it, but still.

My (our) boy asks me all sheepishly if it was alright if he touched me. I answer, "If you'd like that, yes, go ahead," and he instantly kisses me again. His hand curls around my still clothed cock and I swat it away harshly, grumble, "Not there," and my cock weeps just as dreadfully as Dean. I manage to add, "Be good," before he engages me in another brain-numbing kiss. I feel myself floating with him, through him. I still can't believe he's here. He was just a website, a digital phantom not much more than an hour ago and could have stayed exactly that, right until he became reality as he called my cell phone all pissed off and breathless, asking for more detailed directions. He had hitchhiked after fare-dodging the train for an impressive part of the way and while being equal parts amazed and angry about him doing something reckless like that, I promised to drive him back home in person on Sunday. If he wasn't as charming as he is, I would scorn him for his naiveté.

He licks my tongue as if he wants it to be my cock, maybe his own cock. He is so touch-starved that he can't keep still, somehow knows I am not planning on giving him anything at all anytime soon. His hands roam up my shirt, chest, neck, into my beard. He said during several chats that he likes it, just like I told him that I liked the freckles on the back of his hand. Said hand now rakes its fingers through said beard and Dean produces sounds in between our mouths as if he was feeling the finest material. He puts more of his weight into the kiss and brings his fingers up to my hair, brushes it back over my head and down to where most of it is caught in a now definitely too loose ponytail. I let him pluck it all free for good, let him twist his fingers into locks that have been greying for about as many years as he has been alive. Both the thought and the pull on my scalp drives a shiver down my neck. I would have adored Dean even if he was my age. Hell, even if he was older. I would change his diapers and then proceed to kiss his wilted skin, and wow, that is a strange thought, but somehow it seems doable right now.

"Enough." I swat his ass and he jumps, untucks his hands from me and rips his eyes wide open. They flash betrayal, then consideration, then acceptance. Submissiveness. I drink it like a fine wine. "Hands behind your back. Kneel in front of that sideboard-" I point at said sideboard. "-facing away from it, and don't move unless I tell you to."

He moves rather clumsily once his hands are behind his back. It alarms me for a second or two before I assure myself that both you and I are capable of managing a person of Dean's caliber. He eventually kneels like I told him to, head even a little down; perfect. But...

I bring my foot down between his shoulder blades with just enough force not to let his head knock against the sideboard. "Keep that back straight. No slouching." I release and he does as he is told. His fingers of the hand not holding the other wrist curl and my eyes drift over the subtle ripples of his muscles. "There we go," I tell him. He says nothing. Good.

I get at the second drawer and retrieve a wide leather blindfold. Before I put it on Dean, I announce that I will do it. "You will probably wear it for the rest of the day," I add.

"Okay," is all he has to say.

Good then.

It's a nice quality item featuring smooth, padded leather. The buckle which straps it tight sits on the side of Dean's head, not the back. We will probably have him on his back a lot and want to avoid any discomfort. Well, that is only halfway true - any discomfort coming from the sheer design of the hardware, maybe. We will see how far we will take it with the kid. You and me agreed on 'no impact implements' for now; maybe a more harmless flogger at the most. We figured we are a lot to take even without additions and we want to neither scare off the kid nor do we want to turn him raw too fast. A bit of soreness is something he will have to endure whether he likes it or not, but welts of any sort are out of question.

You only agreed once I mentioned Dean's fondness for hickies.

"Is it alright? Too tight?"

"It's good. I'm good."

"Alright." I adjust the blindfold and flip Dean off from various angles, up and down, to provoke a reaction. When nothing comes, I know he can't see a thing. Again I say, "Alright," and I bend down to press a kiss to the crown of his hair, squeeze my hands over his shoulders. "Now, Dean, I will tie your hands together. If that gets uncomfortable at any time, you tell us, alright? It's not supposed to hurt or chafe."

"Okay," he states again. His voice is a little lifted as if he was asking a questions, but I find his shoulders still soft under my hands, so I let him be in his tender state of nervousness.

Another trip to the drawer and back to Dean later, I fasten our reliable velcro cuffs around his wrists. I wore this exact pair only a few days ago during a scene with you, but Dean doesn't have to know that. In Dean's world, I am nothing but a dom. In fact, I barely switch for anyone but you; not many people make me want to. With you, it comes naturally. If it didn't, we probably wouldn't be together at all, or at least wouldn't have sex. It's obvious that you are as far from switching as I am from giving Dean any more insight into your and mine's relationship apart from the fact that it 'is rather open'.

I clip the cuffs together with the attached snap hook and let Dean get accustomed to them. I languidly close the drawer since I have everything I need after sneaking a broken-in bottle of lube and a rather modest plug on top of the sideboard. _For later_ , I tell myself with a burst of anticipation. We have roughly forty-four hours left. So many possibilities. There will be resting, of course, but even if we sleep ten hours per night and eat for another ten hours in total, that still leaves us with fourteen blissful hours of possible play time. More than enough.

While I go to retrieve my hair tie in silence to knot my hair up anew, I pull my shirt over my head and toss it aside together with Dean's belongings. We can put them away properly later tonight. Now it's afternoon and I want to become familiar with Dean's body.

I crouch in front of him, search his face for signs of tremors, of fear. Nothing. His breathing is coming louder now, a little flatter, but his lips are thick and full of blood where I kissed them. I bring the tips of my fingers against his cheek and he flinches. He didn't hear me come so close to him. Still, of course, he leans into my touch. I watch his pulse drumming underneath his skin where light from the tall windows is showering his neck. There is no point in holding back, so I feel right over there. With his cock trapped as it is, I have to rely on other sources to be sure of his arousal. His quickened pulse is one of them.

My hand slips deeper, bumps over a collarbone, and I twist a perky nipple between my forefinger and thumb. Again, Dean flinches, makes a little noise because I used more force than he expected at this early stage, maybe. I hum in appreciation and twist again, just as hard. Dean's jaw droops and I see his tongue glistening in there, where my entire body seems to want to crawl into. _Later_ , I think, and get Dean's other nipple with my other hand.

"You are fairly sensitive," I wonder out loud.

He makes a timid, "Hm," and I watch his bottom lip quiver at the realization that I won't let his chest go again too soon. We do this for a while, him kneeling, breathing, me twisting his nipples, watching in silence. His breath hitches when I pull instead of twist, then again when I go back to twisting. His thighs squirm against each other, unable to channel the arousal this must evoke in him with his cock in a cage. And what a darling one he chose. The clear plastic kind which is so _en mode_ nowadays, still allowing full view of every inch of flesh while keeping it out of reach at the same time. It looked good in the pictures but it's even better in person.

"Pretty sight," I tell him.

"I get that a lot," he jokes, and I flick one of the already reddening nubs as a result. He gasps but lets it transform into a laugh, low and way too teasing for my tastes, so I do it again, harder, then slap his nipple right afterwards. No laughing now. That's what I thought. "Rude," he chokes. I will let him have that since I have returned to twisting and kneading his nipples.

It doesn't take long to turn them cherry-red. Dean's face and neck have gained considerable amount of color as well and his breath is peppered with painful little moans which I milk from him with satisfaction. Oh, the noise he makes when I put my mouth on the left one, the redder one, the flicked-at and slapped one - surprise first, then a hint of arousal, then quickly followed by pain. It must ache. I am careful with him, roll my tongue in a teasing fashion, don't suck, not on this one. The other one though is handled a little rougher once I get to it, but Dean is more than willing with how grateful he bucks into my mouth. The bucking turns into reverse when I start nibbling. I like both reactions equally as much.

"Very receptive," I decide, get to my feet again to trouble the drawer once more. Little change in plans. Back at his side, I help him to get up and walk him to the sofa. I arrange him with his back on the seat, head propped up against the backrest but with his neck supported by a pillow. When I tell him to push his upper body up from the couch, it is both for reaching his bound wrists and testing his flexibility. The latter is almost redundant though since I have seen enough pictures of his naked and muscled form, but it definitely doesn't hurt to watch it bulge with the effort. I undo the snap hook and get his arms away from underneath him, put a hand and pressure on his pelvis to let him know that he can lower himself again. He does so with a delicate huff. Our fingers lace into each other and hold for a moment which I use to take in the quick rise and fall of his smooth chest.

Dean doesn't ask anything like, 'Are you watching me, you creep?' simply because he doesn't _mind_ being watched. He loves it, actually. Society has a word for it: exhibitionistic. One of the many reasons which make him run his blog, and maybe the most prominent of them all. Dean loves to show off. While others start slow and don't show their faces in order to keep friends and family and general reputation safe and sound, Dean's very first post included both his face and his cock. Full frontal, almost too lewd, too "boring" to catch my attention. Luckily, that wasn't the first picture I saw of him.

"Legs up," I tell him, and I help him find his balance on his back only. The sofa is quite wide so he has enough space to lie here without bending his neck too much. My newest addition from the sideboard is another set of cuffs which I fasten around Dean's ankles. Dean has his knees pulled towards his torso and I get his arms to their inner sides to connect each wrist to its according ankle. I kiss his fingers. He lets me suck on them, maybe imagines it was his cock instead. He doesn't know but I plan on letting him leave with not more than a tickle of a finger against his erect sex. If you agree on unlocking him at all.

As in apology, I wrap my lips around the plastic-covered tip of his cock. Even though I am paying great attention to only touching plastic, Dean still bucks and moans intensely, trying to get something, anything. I release him again immediately, slap his left breast, the right, the left. He yelps for the first time now, tries to curl in on himself. With this little leverage of course, he doesn't come far.

"For this weekend, this here-" I yank on his cage. "-is _mine_. Not yours. You agreed, so start acting like it." My hands run down his thighs. All thick and bowed. I can already see where you will put your teeth marks. One of my hands is holding his thigh away, the other places itself over the tender beginning of his leg. "And this here is mine, too. Naturally." My thumb nudges under his balls, pass his taint like it's nothing, unimportant for me (which it is in this scene), and massages over the oh-so hot rim of his asshole. Dean makes a sound and opens his legs even wider without a word from me, without needing to. I feel his hole pulsing under my fingertip. He is not a virgin (obviously) and just like his earlier tease about knowing exactly how good he looks, this amount of confidence makes me want to put him into his place.

Dean snaps an almost hysterical laugh when I bring a smack right over his hole. Unseen by him, I smirk right back. He wriggles in his position, helpless and a little like a frog, and his grin is so wide and excited that I would be worried if we hadn't discussed his limits. This kid had _asked_ for spanking.

_d: nobody will do it right, man. once I shout, they stop, even though I tell 'em to get on with it. pussies, all of 'em._

I am not sure if he knew that hole spanking was a thing. If he didn't, well, then judging by his expression, it seems to be a pleasant surprise. Some more swats wipe the humor off his face and leave nothing but a lax, wet mouth. I put both thumbs to either side of his hole and pull him apart like that. He hums at that and the sound mixes with the image of a first glance of his pink insides. My thumbs edge closer to get a feel, too, just a quick swipe. He's muscular and tender and perfect. While mine dampens the inside of my pants, his cock does the same with its cage. The little gap of the material baring his slit is stuffed with what usually swells to full size. It glistens in the afternoon sun thanks to this first of hopefully many bursts of precome, and I try to talk myself out of the beginning of a trail of thought that would lead to introducing Dean to sounding. Not today. Not this time. Take it slow. I settle for making a quick dash for my camera though; I had set it on the kitchen counter. This is approved of by our visitor, too. He asked for permission to use the pictures on his blog later, would of course give us the credit and so on and so on. So practiced.

I take a picture of that barely touched asshole in front of me, feel Dean startle and then melt at the sound of the shutter release. Well aware that this is going to be a "before" picture, I put the camera away for now.

Dean's hips buck as soon as I am close enough for him to feel my breath on his skin, to realize what is going to happen, and I watch his mouth going even wider from underneath his balls where I guide my tongue all the way from tailbone to balls, everywhere he waxed himself for me, for us. I imagine him doing it now, his pain and frustration and the nervous sweat, and I taste the latter on my tongue - real and actual Dean's real and actual sweat right from his skin. I make the same route again and he is impatient both in his breath and his movements, and I have to hold him down with rather much force and both hands. I press and pull with my thumbs again, uncurl some of that starburst skin for me. Pointed, lazy movements make Dean's belly tremble and his fingers twitch. I watch him, taste him, feel him. He is one week behind his usual orgasm regime of around two per day and desperate for anything he can get. Both you and me had questioned him if he has had a hands-free orgasm yet. To both of us he answered the same.

_d: nah. but I'm open for anything._

We both promised him we could arrange that. The cage is a nice help for that matter, even if not mandatory. With enough time on their hands, none of your male partners has had a problem with coming on nothing but your cock yet. I should know.

My tongue scoops past the rings of muscles by now and I still watch him, although I must admit I am starting to lose myself in the pleasure of the act. My cock demands attention with heavy throbs but I will it to hold on, just for another few minutes; you will get your fill, promise. For now I want nothing more than to eat Dean out. I want him butter-soft and too out of it with pleasure to be able to keep still, too exhausted to move.

I have him at that point after a long while of slurping, nibbling, humming. The sun has lowered itself, just like Dean's knees. His thighs are trembling and he is breathing so audibly now that it's almost pitiful from nothing but a rim job. "Almost" because when it's Dean who is like that, it's right in all possible ways. Macho little Dean who reads but doesn't answer text messages just to post a new set of pictures an hour later, fobbing me with 'sorry, I was _busy_ ;)', linking me to said set of pictures as if I hadn't turned on notifications for his blog. And he's wheezing now, for me. My tongue, my mouth. Everything I'm willing to shove into him, probably. Which I am about to do.

A clap on his ass, a, "Stay," and I'm off to the sideboard. I come back and he is unmoved, head helplessly lolling onto his shoulder, chest heaving in short but regular intervals. I have no intention of letting him catch his breath too well, so I go to my knees again. His thighs slot open just another half of an inch despite the fact that it seems like there is nowhere left to go for them. So eager. I like that.

The lube has a pump dispenser and maybe he doesn't know the discreet sound of those, because when I shove my middle finger into his ass, he jolts hard enough to rattle the snap hooks of his boundaries.

A low growl, as if I had offended him. "Warn a guy," he scolds.

"You know I would do this eventually."

"Yeah, but not _when_!"

I chuckle as the webbing of my finger presses up against the clench of his asshole. He makes another and more pressed sound when I twist deep inside of him, and I tell him, " _That's_ what I want to hear." I get more when I pull back, push in. I used a generous amount of slick which produces another nice sound as well. Dean is rather loose and I am glad. That makes everything so much easier, so much more comfortable. For him, of course. And I meant what I said when I promised him this was for his pleasure, but when we have to hold back a little less on him, we gain some more, too.

He tenses slightly as I slip another digit inside. I shush him, crawl closer on my knees, lean down to kiss and then lick at the soft insides of his thighs. He attempts to grab me by my hair but I growl and nip, which makes him stop again soon enough. I suck where I just bit and think of you at the sound of Dean's small whimper. You will _love_ the kid. The kid will probably hate you. I have the premonition that Dean would welcome a hate fuck just as he would welcome any other type of fuck though, so I'm not too concerned about the possible rise of any difficulties.

The dispenser coats the fingers of my other hand as well and I bring one of them to the two already boy-warm ones. Mesmerized by the slick shine of Dean's rim, I crook my fingers and pull; only slightly, of course. A questioning hum from Dean's just as agape mouth, but my eyes are all over where it's all pink and stretched around my fingers. I go a little further and send Dean mewling, a sweet little noise, and I see his insides convulsing in an attempt to keep everything neat and closed. I think of the camera, of you. I would need someone to hold the camera for me and I dread that it will have to wait until later. It would probably be too tricky to capture Dean's insides anyway; neither you nor me are actually practiced photographers. We take amateur shots, if anything. (Most of the time, I use it to take pictures of interesting plants or insects during hikes; it's the reason I got the camera in the first place. Another thing Dean doesn't have to know about.)

So I take the sight in as it is - try to remember how this boy's hole looked like before we carved it out wide and deep with enough hunger to make him feel it for days.

I try to imagine my own cock in there, think of how it will make Dean moan all happy and frustrated at the same time. Pressure on the prostate while being in chastity can be a wild and (initially) uncomfortable experience. Then I think of _your_ cock in there. My mouth curls into a smile and then I have to huff a laugh, bite my lip. Oh. The kid will _hate_ you.

Without worrying him with any of those thoughts, I ask Dean, "Toy or cock?" while fucking three, then four fingers in and out the rich squelch of his hole.

"Cock," he splutters immediately.

I grin wider because I didn't expect any different. One of my hands retreats to get at my pants. Dean clenches hard around the now added ring finger and pinkie from my hand I left him with, actually grits out a hissed, "Ah!"

I stop moving instantly. "It's still only four," I assure him.

"But it's... the angle, it's..."

"Want me to stop?"

I imagine seeing creases on what is visible of his forehead, see him roll his tongue behind his teeth. I feel him squeeze my fingers, then relax, squeeze again. I wait.

"No, it's, uh. Go for it. I'm good. 'S just... new."

I go slow and watch him swallow, then grind his teeth behind closed lips. I run my lube-sticky fingers in a loose circle along my cock to take off the edge a little. The thought of a cock ring passes me by, but I drop it as soon as it appeared. No need to prolong anything for now. We'll get him accustomed and then we can still see. For now, I decide, I simply want to get inside him, and I want to come. We exchanged test results but some part of me nevertheless wants to be a good example. I know though that you will without a doubt seize the opportunity, so it won't make much difference in the end.

Before I pump another and for now the last batch of lube into my hand, I reach for the phone waiting on the shelf space of the coffee table. I prepared everything beforehand, knowing I would neither want nor be in any position to spend unnecessary time with this part. All I have to do is unlock the screen and hit 'send'. Phone discarded, I slick my hand, then my cock. The boy must hear that. I see his chin perking up. "You ready?"

A stretched grunt as I start pulling out my fingers. "If I say no, 's that fist gonna go up my ass?"

I laugh. "No. You said you weren't in for that. I respect that."

He licks his lips and shimmies in his sprawling posture. "Hm," I hear him pondering. "Things change sometimes, old man." A quick but smirked, "That's not my consent though! Don't get all happy over there!"

Thank god my pants are gone already. "Oh, I am very happy over here one way or another. And-" I get to my feet, step out of my pants, prepare myself mentally for what I will do next. "-I am about to get even happier."

Dean startles and then stiffens when I handle and rearrange him in my hands, then arms. I manage to heave him up the couch, sit and then lie down. His skin is burning hot on top of mine, pressed so close that we slide against each other with the support of both our sweat. His breath is coming shorter again, troubled with the effort not to roll off of me. "I've got you," I promise, mutter close to his ear. I rearrange my grip on him so that I hold on to his thighs now, and I feel his back and abdominal muscles clenching in order to keep his balance. "Shhh. I've got you. Relax."

I hold him like this for a moment to prove my strength. He is not too much of a challenge; maybe a hundred and eighty pounds, all wiry and under control. He pants and I become aware of how drenched in sweat he really is. You and me have grown accustomed to the temperatures in the house during summers; we both despise aircons. It must be strenuous for the kid. I almost pity him, but that would be ridiculous. It's only about to get worse for him exercise-wise, so I settle with accepting his fate along with him.

When he sinks into my hold eventually, I praise with soft kisses and hushed whispers. My left hand lets go of his left thigh and he lets it happen, doesn't twitch, doesn't fall. He has his neck craned for me, my beard, my kisses. If he was looking forward to this only about half as much as vice versa, he must be pretty riled up by the sensation of me aligning my cock with his hole.

I feel him bearing down, trying to suck me in, and I have to close my eyes. I listen to his breathing, to mine, to the faint slick noise between our legs. Dean's weight is comfortable on me, keeps me in line, and with not much pressure, the head of my cock pops past the resistance of Dean's rim. He seizes a little at the stretch, but that's okay, that's alright. I go easy on him, rock shallow little movements that drive me deeper smallest increment by increment. I keep whispering to him, tell him, "Good boy," and, "Just like that," and, "Let me in, come on, relax," and I caress his folded legs and the hard surface that is his stomach. Not at one point do I make an attempt to touch his caged cock or his balls. The tips of my fingers feel right for where I'm pushing up into him, where I imagine him taut and pink just like earlier around my knuckles. I pull him wider here, make room for my cock, and Dean keens but rocks back on me at the very same time.

As I shush him once more, he grits, "Just fuck me already!"

My hips jut up and drive me deep, and again, Dean yelps.

"This is _mine_ ," I remind against his neck where I will bite him as soon as I am done talking some sense back into him, "and I'll do whatever I want with what is _mine_. You shut up and you take it."

Dean whimpers his, "Please!" like he really, really means it.

I would be a monster not to do as this beautiful boy tells me to do. Before having bottomed out, I start rolling my hips. Slow and controlled, but it's a fuck; Dean _sounds_ like being fucked, _feels_ like being fucked, too. I suck some blood to the stretched skin on his neck and taste copper and barely legal sweat. If Dean would taste like thirty years of hard or boring labor, I would still lick my lips for a taste of it, I decide.

It's been a while since I've been inside someone. In recent years, it has become more pleasurable for me to do my dominant scenes without intercourse. Maybe it has something to do with meeting you, with our relationship becoming a part of me. We are not monogamous but yet I still don't feel like engaging into this kind of connection with that many people now that I have my partner. Sometimes though, there are moods or certain people where I want to. Dean is one of them; was from the very start. He has something about himself that makes me want to own him completely. I am sure I am not the only one with these kind of thoughts. I am merely blessed by the insanity that he chose me to have a part of him. You and me. Us. Chose _us_.

I finally hear the door upstairs but don't think Dean does. He tosses his head as I pick up the pace, angle my hips a little different. He makes pretty noises, all throaty and wet-mouthed, and I let them carry me into a floating, warm space. My cock is surrounded by just that, clamped down by still rather unknowing muscles. Dean likes to pick up girls more often than boys; someone had asked about that once and Dean posted it with his answer of, 'They're overall cuter than guys, to be honest.' He might be right about that one, probably. Dean didn't look for cuteness though as he decided to text me - who had attached a candid portrait along with a handful of lines full of adoration - back. He had wanted this, right from the very start; my beard roughing up his skin, my hands holding him tight, my cock punching into his guts. Actually, he _said_ these things, _exactly these things_ in one of our more 'revealing' chat sessions. It had all been so far away back then. Him. All this. I dig my nails into his skin just to feel him squirm, to be aware, to feel.

"Won't you look at _that_."

Dean startles so violently that my cock pops free. This makes the poor kid whine in more loss than I feel myself.

A hand grabs me by the base though, guides and forces me back in with studied calmness. "Now, now. Easy. There you go. All better, right? Right." I hear the familiar clap of your hand on someone's ass, feel Dean squeeze my cock with his insides at the unexpected impact. As you pass us with your eyes raking over Dean's body, you state, "Pretty." You have seen the same pictures as I did; it shouldn't be a surprise. Then I think that maybe you mean not the kid itself but the kid _tied up_. Dean isn't into bondage or other things, at least doesn't share that on his blog. Not yet, maybe.

You pull the coffee table closer to have a seat on it. Elbows on knees, you lean closer to our faces, watch Dean's clueless face over the edge of his glasses. "Hi. I'm Sam," you say, more into the room for a general audience instead of for the boy I am hauling up and down on my cock.

Where others would extend a hand for someone to shake, you extend your hand to shove two of your fingers into Dean's already agape mouth.

"Say 'hello, Sam', slut." My boyfriend can be kind of a dick.

We hear, "Ewwow, Am," and judging by the changing angle of Dean's head, you are crooking and pulling your fingers against the inside of his cheek now. I make out a hitched noise from the top of Dean's throat; my fault, since I just plunged my cock into him up to the hilt after not giving him those last few inches until now. The jingle of the snap hooks and the lock of Dean's cock cage against said cock cage have become a steady background noise.

I decide to close my eyes for now; I will have plenty of time to watch you with the kid once we've traded places. Judging by the level of my arousal, that is not going to take much longer. _Just another few more minutes_ , I soothe myself. I choose to enjoy what I made possible; our special little treat for the weekend. He groans around your fingers and behind my closed eyes I imagine him sucking on them, rolling his tongue around them. I think about his hands and feet swinging loose and useless in the rhythm of my thrusts.

You know me well, so when I start to turn up my voice, your palm cradles my cheek with affection Dean probably won't get to know from you. I nuzzle your hand and snap my hips, make Dean and my skin slap hard against each other. Your thumb traces the creases appearing on my forehead as my face contorts in concentration, bliss, everything.

Someone's breath hitches when I ram in for a last time, keep myself there and unload. Probably the kid; must be. Probably feels himself getting filled up. As I know you and me, he will be unable to feel this kind of tender sensation by tonight. He trembles on top of me, pretty Dean, out of breath and shaking even though he has nothing to do but to hang on. The gagging I hear is most likely to be caused by your fingers down his throat. I chuckle in my delirium of post-orgasmic bliss. My lips touch your palm in a lover's kiss. Your hands can be weapons in the one and tools of exquisite pleasure in the next second. Sometimes both or, like now, split up to do both. I don't tell you that I love you, not in front of the kid, but I know that you know it's on my tongue anyway, just like it lies in the lines of your fingerprints. We are an excellent team.

"What do you call us, slut?"

"M-master." This early hoarseness of Dean's voice combined with his eagerness is making my spent dick twitch again, and again I chuckle, now at the audible clap. "Ow, not in the face, dude!"

You and me laugh. Dean gets another. "Come on now, not in his face. We discussed this," I remind with a smile and a bite to my lip, but the kid can't see that.

Can't see the blown black of your pupils either, your devilish little smirk. Knows you from photos, maybe, but you prefer cock-only views, maybe with a hint of your ripped stomach, the veins popping on your forearms. Enough of a promise. "Okay," you muse, "somewhere else then."

I hiss at the squeeze of Dean's insides on my now close to oversensitive cock, hold him in place as he whines at a handful of sharp blows to his chest. The left side of course, since I marked it up for you already. All nice and red. You will turn it raw for him to wince whenever as much as a breeze whistles against it.

"The other one," he pleads, voice unsteady and hitching. "Please, please do the other one." My dick slides nice and easy in the mess I left inside of him as I rock to savor the last moments. You of course don't listen to what he mumbles, especially without the 'master' following it. As much as I like Dean squirming on top of me, my ears are complaining at some point with his mouth so close to them.

"I'm done here."

"Just drop him off then."

I do. Dean's body hits the floor with a heavy thump and a surprised groan.

As I get up to retrieve some tissues to clean me up, I see you grinding your foot on top of Dean's head while hissing something about how Dean better not get the floor dirty, something rude about the state of his ass. I return to the sight of three of your toes in his mouth, him lying on his side in the small space between sofa and coffee table. I grab a pillow and my smoking utensils and make myself comfortable a few feet away from the two of you. Sitting Indian style, I watch while I absently start putting together my pipe. Some resting is good. Watching you two while doing so is even better.

Your body is all muscle, all tendons. "Enough," and you pull back your foot, stand up, give the coffee table a hefty kick that sends it reeling backwards without tipping over. My eyes flicker to Dean, witness him flinching at the power you demonstrate, the unfamiliar noise of wood rattling over tatami mats. But then he's grinning again, wide and somewhat crazy, and it makes me smile over my tobacco. Exhausted and drooling and at the mercy of an animal like you can be, and this kid is having the time of his life. I knew he would go well with us.

"On your knees, slut. Show me that hole."

We watch him struggle and then fail to comply due to his bound limbs, see his face roughed up against the tatami and his teeth gritting before his mouth opens in a frustrated grunt.

"Hands, Sam," I provide.

You snort and roll your eyes but do crouch down to roll him into the desired position. Dean gives a warning snarl but we are not too concerned; it's not comfortable considering the way he is bound but it's definitely manageable. You remain crouched, eye him through your glasses, mouth tight. Maybe watch his mouth where he turned his face to his side to face you without seeing you, where his lips are parted and wetted by a quick tongue. I can tell you are weighing your options. Which hole will it be, I wonder?

You decide for delivering a rough hit where his ass is desperately trying to regain composure already, entire hand tense and he is so compact that you would only need two fingers to cover what you use four for. Dean keens and I light a match.

"Don't you dare leak a drop."

I smoke and watch Dean fidgeting. You are a master at turning held-back noises into outright sobs and I adore you for it. He can't articulate it himself right now, but I am sure Dean is feeling the same. Your fingers turn into butter-soft things as the hits turn into slip-slides up and down the crease of Dean's ass, tease all pain away to make room for sweet, sweet afterburn. Dean wheezes and arches his back, still caged, still on the edge. You reward him with two fingers at once, right in to the knuckle in one toe-curling, careful slide. I see the muscles in your forearm working in the slowly dimming light, watch Dean's ass rising even higher, his mouth silent but wide.

"Yeah. You like that, huh."

I imagine seeing Dean nodding, can nothing _but_ imagine the painful chub of his leaking dick inside its see-through cage wedged between his pulled-tight legs.

After all these years, you can still make me curious, so I ask, "Do you think you can do it?"

"With my cock? Sure."

Dean whines. Yeah. You definitely sent him a picture.

"Don't worry, boy, you'll like it," I chuckle.

Your fingers keep churning inside the kid. You lean over and inspect him there with your other hand pulling his cheeks apart, tugging at the rim of his hole like that. "Hm," you hum as in consideration, slip another two of the other hand in and pull him wide, wider than I would have done it, and Dean visibly and audibly tenses at that. I can see fingers scrabbling around an ankle, desperate to reach something, anything. Dean doesn't touch his safe word. "Cain, darling, would you mind takin' a picture of this? I think this very much worth a shot."

"Of course," I mumble as I get up. The light is even shittier from when the idea had crossed my mind, but you are pulling the kid apart so wide that it's still so much better. Over your shoulder and with our camera in my hand, pipe in between my teeth, I peer into the angry dark colon of our visitor. Come and lube is pooling, shining, turning my mouth watery. I swiftly actuate the release before I get too carried away. I've had my turn and have my pipe now, make it back to my seat in time to witness something rare - you, undoing a sub's restraints.

"On the couch, sideways. Forehead to the seat. Grip your ankles. Yes."

Dean gasps and wriggles a little when you make him immobile anew. How pretty his shoulders are bulging under the pull of the extension back out. Flat on the sofa with tucked-in knees so that wrist and ankle cuffs can be hooked, Dean has even less latitude than before.

I wonder if the goosebumps pebbling on Dean's skin are caused by the anticipation or fear rolling through him at the sound of you undoing the zipper of your jeans. You circle him to get to his side, go down to one knee. I can see the warm, thick buzz of your cock all the way from over here where you encourage Dean's fingers to get a feel for it. They curl rather clumsily and he stutters his breath, is rubbed against as much as he manages to get a grip on your flesh. A soft noise when you fuck into the barely-there clutch of his palm because the kid just now got a real feeling for the girth of what he (allegedly) had jerked off to several times, imagining it riding him 'as hard and as rough as you want, kiddo'.

And when you ask him, "Think you can handle it?" how could his answer be anything but, "Yeah."

I blow a mouthful of smoke into the thick air of the room, feeling highly satisfied with myself, my taste, my find. I cradle my cheek, smile at you as you give me a sly smirk, a 'oh, this little shit is about to go on an adventure' lick of lips. Your cock is bobbing heavily in time with your steps, simply tugged out of your fly together with your balls. You like the bite of a zipper.

I realize my position isn't as rewarding anymore and move to the side, face the sofa frontal now and keep my eyes where Dean's ass is raised high just above the edge of the armrest. You find the lube and the lube finds your palm, your cock. Another pump for good measure until you're almost dripping, and I roll the mouthpiece of my pipe between my teeth. Your fingers span wide over Dean's ass, so wide and tanned and powerful, and you stand with your feet wide apart for leverage, head and back a little bowed in comfort, in relaxation, anticipation. You let your cock swing against the kid's ass; such a playful way to get it in line. Dean fidgets here because you are rolling your hips already, hump your slick and dangerous cock like a dog would, like any animal would. As if you didn't know what you were doing, as if it was nothing.

You hit your mark several times but don't slip in; Dean maybe still too tight or your cock maybe simply too fat (or maybe both). One short grip and guide from your hand would take care of it, would drive you in immediately and without much fuss, but you want to show off. Serves the kid right, I guess. You like making beautiful things shatter to your feet.

"C'mon," you croon, as if it was Dean's fault, as if Dean needed to adjust here, and a lazy smile spreads on your lips at his huffed little noises. Sounds spit-wet, sounds nervous. Your favorite kind. More sincere thrusts - eventually a sharp whine from him, a flutter of lashes from you, but you pull back immediately just to stab inside equally as harsh, as sudden. We all hear you making him squelch with your cockhead forcing him wide, maybe up to the flared edge, almost a pop when you pull back out. You praise, "There we go," and shove your cock deeper on every bump forward.

I could watch you all day and I know I _actually could_. I do it right now, finish one and start the next smoke while you turn him inside-out, soon make him sob and beg. Nothing in particular, no words but 'please' and various combinations of vowels. You tease him for a long while before really packing your thrusts. Dean screams himself hoarse with your cock hammering into his prostate over and over and I wish I would have thought of a towel when his voice breaks even more, oh-so delicately, oh-so telling. The kid's cock spills copiously and he thrashes his head as freely as possible. The experience is so different, so intense; I know. I'm happy for him and I smile around the mouthpiece of my pipe.

You grunt, "Atta boy; good boy," and get your foot on the armrest for so much more leverage, become even more brutal, even louder, almost lifting the kid up by his hips with how firm your grip is there. And yes, I see his knees hovering, his face stuffed so deep in the sofa that at some point I decide to softly snap my finger; one of our signs. That earns me your attention, directs your hand to his hair for a tug to the side, offering the sight of the kid's soaked and fire-red face to the room and my eyes, his cries now so loud that it would hurt if he wasn't as exhausted and hoarse as he already is. You keep slamming into him all this time, don't let up for a second. Your forehead is beaded with sweat, your lips pursed, eyebrows drawn tight. The glasses have slipped down your nose but are holding on, just like you, just like everything you want to act that way.

The single indication for your climax is your breath stuttering, once, softly, your eyes drifting shut and rolling into the back of your head behind trembling eyelids. Otherwise, you keep going. As I thought, Dean doesn't react much to the gush of release into his battered insides. Must be numb and aching; I can see the puffy pink peeking out with every pull backwards. No complaint though, whatsoever. Relief ghosts over Dean's face when he realizes you are slowing down, maybe puts two and two together and knows the worst is done with.

Our visitor is a sweat-slick heap of flesh on our anthracite sofa, seems boneless as you pull out for what seems like an eternity, inch by inch by inch. Without further need to keep up the tension in his body, he sinks in on himself deeper once your hands unloose their support. I get up to discard the ashes from the three smokes I indulged in during your time with him, return into the now sunset-orange living room, hand you a bunch of tissues. You grumble, "Thanks," wipe your forehead with the back of your hand before you take care of the mess between your legs.

After wiping away the most superficial mess from Dean's ass and the back of his thighs, I crouch down where he is still catching his breath. My fingers brush through the slick strands of hair that are matted to his forehead and all he can do is give me a broken whimper.

"Are you alright?"

Distorted by his cheek and side of mouth being mushed against the sofa, I still can clearly make out his, "Super."

I give him a smile, more petting to his hair, a kiss to his temple before wiping at his sweat with another tissue. Somewhere to my right, you are sniffing, discarding the tissues, zipping your pants. "I'll get this off now, okay?" I unbuckle the blindfold and feel you next to me. Dean scrounges his face hard against the (for him probably intense) brightness of the room. Soft clicks announce his restraints being undone at the hooks, loud ripping the unbuckling of the velcro. I turn my head to watch you folding them up dutifully, bringing them back to their place in the drawer.

Dean seems to tend to sulking and that's okay. Whatever he needs, he will get it. His unwilling sounds when I turn him over to get at the other mess - the one between his thighs, his belly - fade away once he's lying flat on his back. I quickly stuff some tissues under his ass. Limbs in a sprawl, all loose and free, he looks young, almost too young. Some sort of sadness overcomes me, a dull type of shame about taking advantage of his curiosity. I recall our chats as I wipe him down and remind myself that no, Dean knows _exactly_ what we wants and moreover got himself into this situation on his completely free decision. If it hadn't been us, he would have chosen someone else. Maybe someone reckless, someone dangerous. I tell myself that we're at least not irresponsible, you and me - we keep promises and respect rules.

The cleaning is a caress, too, becomes more so when most filth is gone and my fingers don't slip through sweat. This is comfort. I don't know him well enough to know if he would like to hug or cuddle. _Yet_ , I ponder. I keep my voice low. "How're you feeling, Dean?"

"Good." He's slurring. I pet his cheek and he lets his head lean into my hand, gives me a weak but stunning little smile. "You guys're awesome."

"Beef or pork?"

Dean and me look up to you. I didn't even hear you going through the freezer but here you are with two plastic bags.

A stunned silence (I'll let our guest decide, of course) before Dean gasps, "Is that... Do you have a grill?"

"Beef or pork, kid?" you repeat more pointedly; but I know you, and you are not pissed off at all right now.

I hear "Beef," and smile up at you. It's your favorite, too.

The more Dean rests, the more vivid he becomes. I help him into the bathroom for a shower and he comes out by himself twenty minutes later, as good as reborn. He joins us on the patio, naked as a jay bird without a sign of discomfort, without us asking for it in the first place. Dean just _is_ like that. You won't let him get too close to the grill in fear of sizzling fat drops on boy-skin but yet keep him close to you with an arm around his hips, you sitting, him standing. His fingers are absently playing with your hair while you two talk and you don't seem to mind at all. Yes. You are getting along just fine.

Almost through dinner, I ask Dean if I may take another picture of him. I get a, "Sure, dude," and capture the innocence of his marinade-smeared face and hands, the last glimmer of sunshine in the tips of his pool-blond hair and his wide, happy eyes, his careless nakedness while sitting Indian style on one of our rattan chairs. I bend my knees slightly so that the picture includes what's underneath the desk, too - the hairlessness, the cock cage. While I still stare in amazement at the live preview on the display, Dean tells me, "Hey, here. Take another."

He sucks the juicy trio of fore, middle and ring finger into his mouth. I do as he says and it's not the mild breeze tickling through everyone's hair that brings goosebumps to my arms. You watch him, too.

Our tongues become his napkins once he is finished eating; you get the face, I get the fingers. I rub Dean's now heavy belly, consider if we might have overdone it with dinner, then decide that being a good host is more important. If he gets sleepy, we'll wait. Getting our dicks down his throat can wait, too. So much time. There's still so much time. I dwell in the contented happy noises from deep down Dean's chest. I feel like an animal cleaning up their young. In a way, that's exactly what I am.

He pulls your cock out at some point, strokes it while you suck on his tongue, and he looks hungry. He says he wants some pictures on the patio, here, now. We both point out that maybe he should rest for another while after a meal like that but he assures he's fine, not to worry, 'his digestion hasn't given up on him yet'. You let him rearrange the chairs so that his is right next to yours, goes on his knees and drops over the two armrests, right into your lap. You lean back and the two of you look darling like that.

His cheek bulges obscenely where he presses your cockhead against it from the inside. As he gazes into the lens of my camera like a porn star, his eyes are all bedroom, his mouth all whore-house. It must get him riled up to have his picture taken. He demands to see what I created and leaves your cock spit-wet, you slightly offended. I see you glaring but say nothing, let Dean give me a tip or simply a wish on how he wants me to do it differently for the next pictures. I get ready quickly when he turns back to you; wouldn't want to miss the shock on his pretty face when you slam up into his throat 'by accident'. Risky, but Dean doesn't throw up, just glares but then forgets about his anger when you start playing with his ass.

I get inside to retrieve the lube but end up bringing a blanket, too, when I throw another glance out the glass door. Take it as it comes. You let me stuff the blanket underneath you two, make an appreciative sound against where you are tongue-deep in the kid. I watch him giving his best to wrestle the entire girth of your cock between his jaws with a soft shade of pink spreading on the apples of his cheeks while I undress, toss everything aside and join you two on the floor.

Everything here is still warm due to the daylong exposure to the sun. I tease at Dean's lips that strain around your cockhead, pet his hair, the density of his upper back. Your hands are loosely placed on his hips without much need to hold him in place. You are making a lot of sound, all sloppy and unashamed, but you lace your fingers into mine as if the sheer thought of touching anyone but me would make you drop dead in disgust.

We take the chance to place Dean between us when you decide to get rid of your clothes. We take turns on burying our cocks in the furnace grip of his ass, really taking our time here, getting and giving a lot of skin contact. Dean lets us have him like that for a while, until he gets up on one elbow with a pout that makes both you and me insane in equal parts of anger and adoration and demands for us to get serious again, that he 'didn't hike for a goddamn hour for some vanilla ass licking'. We then proceed to haul him up the railing of the patio, let him hold himself up with his arms and his legs tight around whosever turn it is. Two or three times, we could easily have made him come again, but one orgasm is more than enough for day one. We prefer our boy on the edge, stuttering and pleading and tossing his head all sweaty and teeth-clattering, his cock leaking all over the place but not quite overflowing like he now knows it can.

His arms give out eventually and we decide to move inside. Night has fallen by now and the air is buzzing with insects. Dean's skin is red where he scratched at newly acquired mosquito bites. While still walking him into our bedroom, I start layering said bites with my own, everything I can reach on his neck and back. The beasts were ruthless with him and you make him moan so much prettier than them where you map out the lines of his quadriceps with your teeth. Dean is muttering nonsense and clumsily jerks both of our cocks while we still cover him from both back and front, hold him, arrange him as we want to get at new inches of skin. He tastes like sun and something long forgotten. How could I deny him when he whimpers all pretty for my cock up his ass? I have him on his side again, holding one of his legs as well as his forehead to turn him open for you, the insides of his thighs not purple enough for your taste; oh, I know. He blinks up at you with sparkling eyes, his tongue already lolling out of between his lips and his breath raw from panting open-mouthed, and he swallows around your cock which just won't quite fit down his throat. You love them choking on it though, so you don't mind. At least the other end is able to accommodate it.

Exhaustion eventually gains the upper hand over all of us. I fall asleep buried in Dean's armpit and - God knows how many hours later - wake up to the soft rocking of his body. He moans before he is truly awake and I lick all morning sourness from his teeth while you drive last night's remnants deeper up into his guts. My fingers tickle over Dean's lower belly in fascination. I tell you I can feel you in there and Dean almost loses his mind with how incredibly it turns him on.

He begs for us to make him come, promises things we won't tease him with later because we are not terrible like that. We forget he ever said those things but don't let him get his way, either. He appreciates none of it. We chuckle about his helplessness and tie him to the headboard.

His ass is tipped up, almost hovering over his face with his ankles fastened right next to his wrists. Said face is red in exertion, eyebrows worried, hair a mess. He gasps as he watches the anal spreader disappearing into him rather easily, then gasps harder as you make it expand - expand - expand. He is close to tears with our fingers prodding at his exposed inner walls and while you fetch the rubber ball gag, I explain Dean what a silent safe word is. His, now, is the Vulcan salute.

After teasing him for the better part of an hour with variously sized dildos and then a prostate vibrator, we got our share of precious rebel tears. We decide to go over to breakfast after getting Dean back into a mobile and communicative state.

"Can't you sit still for a single damn second?"

I throw you a smirk for that one while Dean glares and bares his teeth.

"Super funny," he sneers. We worked a clearly not unimpressive plug into him under the shower. You currently are having a lot of fun with the remote control for the vibration settings while Dean is trying rather hard to get some food into himself. He has spilled half of his coffee so far. I refill his cup and smile to myself and the entertainment in front of me.

And there we go again - Dean reaches out for (presumably) the butter, and his hand stops in midair with a gasp from his mouth exactly when I hear the toy roaring alive. His eyes went wide before he squints them now, hisses another useless 'stop it' and earns a clap to his thigh for that. From me, even if his disobedience was directed at you. Us teaming up on him must be as unnerving as it obviously pleases the kid. He settles with his fate for now and ignores the hitch caused by a swift turn of the remote's control knob.

Everyone hears the foreign sound that follows, though. Distant, muffled, but definitely not connected to anything we are doing.

Dean frowns into the room for a moment before he visibly tenses, jolts from his seat, bolts into the living room. You follow and I turn around where I sit on my chair.

The kid crouches where we forgot his belongings halfway shoved underneath the sofa. He produces a phone from his rucksack. Just when he has got it, the ringing stops. I hear cursing, watch your back, but you only stand there, watch.

Dean fumbles with his phone for a while. The cursing continues. He lifts the phone to his ear after some moments and I am honestly surprised about that.

"Mom? Hey, what is it? You called me like, a million times!"

I watch the scene from the patio suite. Unfortunately, I can't hear Dean's mother talking and doubt that you can, either.

Dean's eyes roll dramatically. I can see the dark base of the vibrator contrasting against his skin all the way from where I sit. "I jus- Yeah, I forgot, okay? Jesus, what do you think woulda happened? I can watch out for myself! 'M not a kid anymore! - Yeah, I'll- Yeah, I'll remember to call next time. Sorry, okay? Sorry."

Dean remains crouching next to the sofa, cheeks a little pinker than before. Maybe embarrassed to be denounced by his mother in front of us, to have his role as a son, a child of someone, involved into the mature nature of our weekend. His eyes peer up to you, then to me, and he licks his lips in a nervous habit.

Then, the hint of a smile shows itself.

"Oh, y'know. Jus' a lil' trip with a few buddies. Hiking. Nature. The whole nine."

Fascination settles into me when I see you thumbing at the remote - how Dean's face lights up, mouth dropping low - how Dean slightly sways in his position with his hand bracing itself on the armrest - how Dean keeps his eyes pointedly away from either of us all the while he stays on the phone.

"Uh, no, I, I left a note, pretty sure. Isn't it on the... the fridge?"

Lick of lips again. Neither of us moves.

"Yeah, isn't it...? Yeah, go take a look, yeah. Do that."

Your thumb.

Dean's eyelids flutter while he waits for his mother to answer.

"Yeah, it's... Yeah, right? I told you." More licking, tilt of head, slip of thumb. Dean grabs the armrest harder. "Yeah... on Sunday, yeah, I'll... I dunno, maybe at... at six...? I dunno, Mom." Dean starts curling his body inwards, his voice going a little lower, sleepy, controlled. You get into motion once you notice.

I would be concerned, would have second thoughts about going this far. He's still living with his parents and no parent deserves to be part of a prank like this. Well, on the other hand...

Dean's eyes are dreamy and his mouth all darling smile as he fixates them on you. "Any plans for dinner yet, maybe?"

Now I rearrange my position in my chair to get a better view without craning my neck so hard, watch you heaving the boy up by his slender hips, make him brace his one free arm on the armrest while he makes him straighten his back in a neat bow. Pretty much like I had him when he just got here. He's biting his lip and peers over his shoulder, up at you where you have your eyes strictly on him.

"Casserole? Oh, I dunno... Anything else?"

Your blow to his ass makes even flesh as tight as his jiggle.

"O-! Ooooor m-maybe, y'know what, maybe make it casserole then, yeah, sure, uh."

The buzzing of the vibrator is turned to a peak and back down in the matter of a few seconds, but it's loud enough for me to be aware of it despite the distance. Dean's cherry-mouth trembles together with his knees.

"N-no, jus'," and he is so composed, so sweet in his arousal, lets his head droop just a little bit lower, "jus' the regular type, the one with the... uuuh, y-yeah, uh-huh. Yeah, with the, the-"

Another hit to his ass.

"-the roasted onions in it," Dean chokes.

You step back, briefly both hands on the remote before you decide differently again, bring your palm flat to where the toy hums inside of the kid. You press - he presses back. A gasp keeps itself in the back of his throat.

"Uh, whu-what? Oh, that's, uh, that's nice. Tell him hi from me, alright?"

Another short roar from the toy. Another right when Dean opens his mouth to speak, almost doubles over, squeezes his eyes closed.

"N-no, y' don't have t- No, jus- Uh-"

Another, longer. Dean quakes with it, head pulled back, fingers digging into the armrest.

"H-hey buddy," he manages, "hey. How's it goin'? Mom said you. That you were back from space camp? Yeah? Was it nice?"

Something creeps down my neck. I see the same thing ghosting over your otherwise completely stoic expression.

Your eyes are on me as you reduce the power. Reduce, not take away completely. When I listen closely, I can still make out the telltale noise of gut-deep silicone.

"Adam, baby boy, listen; c-can we- can you tell me later, yeah? Okay? I swear I'll let you chatter all day once I'm back, jus', I-"

Your palm presses harder and rocks the toy inside of Dean who wants to squirm away but is held tight by your remote-heavy other hand now, too.

"I reeeeeally gotta go right now, kiddo, okay; alright; yeah? GivemomakissfrommeBYE!" Dean hardly manages to disconnect the call and immediately bellows, "You FUCKER!" over his shoulder once he did, earning the highest setting and a series of merciless blows to his quickly reddening ass cheeks.

You drape yourself over his back, getting a hold of his chin, the swift cut of his jaw, still keep the toy roaring. Your smile curls itself like art as you tease, "Who's that 'Adam', huh?" ignoring that we pretty much know, maybe just in order to get to hear Dean's poison-thick, "My _lil' brother_ , you sick fuck!" Which, in turn, justifies another set of spankings. Breakfast is now officially over.

The edging we execute on the kid with the help of the comparably massive toy scratches on the border to 'pain'. Obviously. He is crying twenty minutes into it. The toy presses more insistent up into him with your weight on his shoulders pressing him harder down to the floor. We put a towel underneath him this time. Dean's forearms are bound behind his back and even though he says he doesn't want pictures of it, _I_ do, now that we decided to put one of the collars on him. It's just too adorable - tears and snot and red-marbled cheeks... and _leather_. The shutter release works just when Dean opens his mouth to announce that if he had ever wanted to know how it feels like to have a running washing machine shoved up his ass, well, he'd be so much wiser now.

You are excellent at reading the kid. Every time he is about to blow, you turn the toy off with perfect timing, just right to get his hopes up before taking it all away once more. You finally agree on letting me let him up. I fuck the now silent toy in and out of the tender swell of Dean's hole a few times before withdrawing it for good, just to hear him beg again so sweetly. I adore him for these two abilities of speaking his mind completely unfiltered and in the next second being able to let himself go under our hands. He's versatile and makes it look easy, as if this was what he was born to be like - a sassy little fucktoy. We agreed on 'no violence to the face' but Dean almost blissfully straightens his back in his kneeling position as you slap your blood-thick ten inches across either sides of said face. I smear my precome over his freckles while you're occupying his mouth and vice versa. His skin is just too warm and slick not to be tempted to do that.

Dean is pretty when he drools. Prettier when I tug on his hair; really brings out the complexity of his skin when he wrinkles his forehead like that. Neither you nor me have come yet today. Gotta be economical with what we spend. That's okay though, doesn't change much about the earned pleasure. Simply adds another type of low burn, secret ache. It makes us braver.

We show him the basement. He gapes at awe at the more cruel instruments but doesn't come close to any of them, maybe in fear that we might strap him to them as soon as we've got the chance. I explain some of the most basic terms of bdsm but Dean isn't too interested. It's not his world (maybe not yet, who knows?) and so we get him upstairs again rather quickly. We are having a good time as it is. Even without much gear, Dean is one of the most rewarding sexual partners we have had in a long while. It's rare to find someone who resonates with the both of us. Maybe too young for our tastes, sometimes a little too cocky, yes, but overall: just right.

He initially snorts a laugh as I propose a walk outside but then quickly finds joy in it. Walking around naked outside, that is. His arms are still bound but he doesn't mind it much. His balance has improved remarkably since he arrived. Maybe it had just been the nervousness. Now he's trotting peacefully in between us.

Our property is not gigantic but isolated enough to allow an unworried halt at a nearby stream. We've brought several guests here before Dean and will bring others here after Dean. At our usual spot - where an old willow tree casts a safe shadow - I spread the thick blanket I brought. I hear you kissing him noisily behind my back. My already stiff cock twitches at that fact. You barely ever kiss anyone, even me.

We strip and get Dean into my lap after I laid down on my back, undid my ponytail. As I run my hands up his strong thighs, I close my eyes and listen to the water flowing by, to the wind in the trees, the chirping of birds and humming of living all around me. I breathe the clear air of our home. The scent of the grass surrounds me; the moss, the wet stones lying in the embankment of the stream. Sun rays warm my toes, your hand my knee, and Dean my lap, genitals, palms.

I feel at peace here. In this moment, everything is in perfect harmony.

Dean complains rather fast about his arms once he has only his legs to move himself on my cock. You redo the cuffs so that Dean now has his forearms connected in front of his body. He looks stunning like that - chest pressed together to form a hint of cleavage, shoulders a little hitched when he supports his hands on my chest to earn more leverage. He moves practiced and with good stamina. His eyes are closed in concentration. He is searching out the perfect angle to fuck my glans up against his prostate. It's around noon and we have been teasing him since morning. I don't blame him for chasing what he should know he won't get without our permission.

I watch him, let him work. We are all sweating; Dean's nipples pinched to an angry red with the addition of friction _and_ salt. He has been stuttering his breath for a while now, ever since you started playing with the adjustable straps of his collar. You cross and tug and Dean's throat ties up. Not completely, just enough to make him aware of the control you have. Could make him choke. Could let him breathe. It's your choice how much air he gets, not his. I enjoy the swell of his lips and deepening of his blush with the dammed circulation. It's a surprise when his fingers curl over my chest, when something nudges both him and against my-

Oh.

I look up, see you looming behind him, so close, knuckles white where you hold the straps. Your eyes flick to me, to the kid, me. Dean makes a hushed sound, keeps moving, even if slower. I see curious green appearing behind heavy lashes, a silent question on his parted lips.

I look at you, at the kid. Stay with the kid. "You want to?"

His eyes slip close again, his head lolling where the sturdy collar keeps his neck straight. The sweat gives him an almost artificial glow. As you let him loose a little, I hear him croaking, "Let's try."

Try. Trying is good. Yes.

You slick up your cock with one hand, hold both collar straps in the other. Somewhat resembling reins, in a way. The sun is blinding me. I feel uncertainty fluttering in my chest, speeding up my pulse. We could hurt the kid. We've had more experienced people who tapped out on this, people who knew the whip of a cane, who knew _pain_. I hear you pumping a lot of lube, and I nod in trust.

Dean keeps his eyes closed as I feel you lining up where I already am. I watch the kid, bring my hands to his flanks for mental support, pet him up and down. A nervous exhale from his mouth, a twitch of eyebrows. You angle in. I hold my breath.

"Easy." I don't know which one of us you are addressing. It works for both of us.

Pressure builds, snaps.

"Ah-"

"Shhh, it's all good, wait. Here, let me try again."

It doesn't slip away this time. You press right in next to me.

The kid surges forward but I hold him, watch the white of his teeth as he bares those in an honest, painful hiss.

"Easy," _I_ tell Dean now.

Once the head is in, it almost works on its own. I am floating, euphoric. Dean is an airtight vice around the both of us and silk-smooth at the same time, his body shaking silently as you stuff him all-too full. But no cry. No safe word. The next time he makes a sound, it's so much different from his earlier 'ah'. It's low, heavy. Rumbling. One long, stretched 'hmmm', and his lips pop free once he is done sucking them tight between his teeth. Eyes still closed, eyebrows still knitted, but his hips tip back, down. Onto us. Both of us. Welcoming.

The rough rhythm of your hips produces sounds in Dean we haven't heard before. Like he is dying and coming at the same time, out of his mind and so so so beautiful. His cock seeps a steady run of slick into the coarse hair of my treasure trail although we both ream his ass. Maybe _because_.

My balls are aching. I decide I will come like this, exactly like this, and I look for your eyes, for your permission to let Dean do the same. Your eyes are as dark as ever, squinted tight with your pleasure. You reply by giving Dean your all, as if it was only you who was in him right now, and you make him wail loud enough for a God knows how many miles radius to testify.

He's lacing useless things together with 'I'm coming', over and over and too loud to endure, and your hand clamps down on his mouth just when my balls start drawing tight.

As I come, I keep my eyes open just enough to see the white of your knuckles, the dribble of spit from in between, the screw-locked eyes of the kid. I hear you roaring all untamed, all animal, and I feel a subtle splash of warmth where I assume my navel must be. Somewhere around there. Wherever Dean's spilling dick is pointed at right now. Yes.

The calmness of the stream and the protection of the tree let us fall asleep. I don't know how long we are out. When I wake up, I am the first of us to do so, and I see the sun still far above the line of mountains in the distance. You are curled up tight and protective around the boy's back, nosing his hairline just above the upper edge of the collar. Your chests rise and fall in unison. I watch the two of you for a while, get up to wash myself in the stream, let the sun dry me.

I eventually wake you guys and we stumble back into the house. In the comfort of our bed, we nap for another two hours. I pet yours and kiss his hair. You both let me.

Dinner is lighter tonight as we are all exhausted. A good, heavy broth. We get the most part of a gallon of water into the kid along with the food, too. We're sitting on the stairs of the patio and Dean has his feet in the grass, in my palms, and I kiss his toes as he tells us about the job interviews he has had so far. He finished high school and even with his parents urging him to go to college, he wants nothing more but to start working. With cars, preferably. Old-timers would be a dream, but he's alright with starting slow. You give him advice from where you are reading in a lounge chair you put here for that very purpose. Your long hair is pulled into a high bun on the back of your head, all messy and halfway undone like the lacings of the linen shirt we somehow end up sharing, like most of our wardrobes. The kid listens with gratitude. I think about kids as I watch the two of you.

We took off the collar prior to our last shower, so I am free to wrap my hands around Dean's bruise-littered neck while he grinds himself slow and firm in your lap. His hands are tight on the armrests, his face relaxed, just swimming, just going with it. You keep on reading, had to do not much else but hike up your shirt a little. I got the lube, I stand and choke Dean. His pulse is like a small bird underneath my fingers, flutters stronger or softer however I apply the pressure. I am hard, too, but it's not like I am planning to come again tonight. I breathe in the night air, listen to cicadas and Dean's strangled, soft noises, the turning of a page in your book, the squelch of a wet fuck. I fall asleep in our bed with my thoughts right here.

Dean comes out into the garden that next morning, wearing nothing but a confused, tired yawn. "What're y'doin'?"

I give him silence and a front view of the watering can in the clutch of my hand.

"Yeah but... why _now_?"

"I forgot to do it yesterday."

"Old man, it's like... four thirty in the goddamn morning."

I give that a thought. "We rested a lot yesterday. I am not tired anymore."

"Great," he grunts, already turns to get back into the house, "then show me where you two freaks are hidin' the damn coffee."

I notice a sunburn on his shoulders as he accepts the steaming cup of coffee I hand over the kitchen island. He inhales audibly, moans even louder as he is confronted with the rich aroma. The cold tiles are heavenly against my bare soles. The world outside is still showered in blue, so the close to exclusively black interior of our house keeps us in the illusion of night. I don't turn on a light though, don't want to hurt his eyes. He seems to be comfortable with darkness, just like me.

I watch him drink for a while, am at peace. "When would you like to leave today?"

His eyes are big at me for that.

"Not that I want to throw you out, of course," I add without much finesse. He probably knows that anyway. "I just have to see when we will have to take off in order to get you home in time."

"Eh," our boy shrugs. "I'm not in a rush or anythin'."

I fuck him in the middle of the living room, rake my nails over the rug burns the mats leave on his back. I am hard and urgent enough to bring tears to his eyes and the most beautiful rawness to his already sore asshole. I come deep inside of him, fuck half of it back out, get at the rest with my tongue. He lets me kiss it deep into his teeth with his arms and legs wrapped tight around me.

I return to my garden afterwards but the sun is already too high to make watering any more reasonable. Since I left Dean sprawling and dozing on the couch, I am not surprised to find him bent over the backrest of it when the promising echo of your palms reach me. We get him back into our bed, force both our cocks inside of him after making sure they would fit with a small but effective assortment of toys. He doesn't come again, but we do. I end up nuzzling my mouth and nose all over his body afterwards while you busy yourself with renewing some of the marks you put on him. Dean only starts getting impatient with us after quite a while, when both you and me forgot about our rumbling stomachs and went right back into nap mode.

We stuff him full of food. I am a good host, after all. You kiss my cheek in front of the kid along with a purred, "Thank you, darling." You mean a lot of things with this simple sentence and don't stop me when I tiptoe to reach your mouth. You are always shaved bare; I go without the touch of a razor for weeks. We are so very different, but sometimes, we are so deeply in love we cannot see where the one stops and the other begins.

I rate Dean's expression somewhere around a 'you gross husbands, make out somewhere else' and smile as I pat his cheek. "Come on, boy. Let's get you back on the road."

It's strange, to say the least, to see Dean fully dressed. Dressed at all, actually. I recognize the band logo on his shirt from when I was young and think about what youth means to me. Dean and you make the goodbye short - just a quick, "Thanks for everything," from Dean and a, "Stay safe," from you - and before I know it, you are upstairs and I am on the highway with the kid in the passenger seat.

We chat some more during this four hour ride. My hand is on his knee at some point, his palm on my junk. Not teasing or wanting, just holding on for something like closeness, like comfort.

"Have you ever spent a weekend with someone like this?"

A smirk in the corner of my vision, but I keep my eyes on the road. "Definitely nothing like this so far, no."

"And a weekend in general?"

"Sure. Have someone over an' we're too lazy to get up, 'n suddenly Friday turns into Sunday, y'know. My mom makes the meanest pancakes, so I kinda make her responsible for part of it. Heh."

I smile. Dean simply is the kind of guy who has no problem with walking straight back into his family's house with love bites covering every inch of him, even without a worry about the visible ones on his neck. He, as the kids say it so often nowadays, 'doesn't give a fuck'. "Ever happen to see your 'weekends' again after said weekend?"

"I run into some folks again during parties an' stuff, I guess. I dunno. I don't take names, if you mean that kinda thing." A kind fondle to my balls. "I don't care about that stuff. I take 'em as I see 'em."

A clear answer. Okay. I can respect that. He's smooth in his rejection. I really like it. Him. Generally him. I hum my acceptance from where I still taste him deep inside my stomach. If I should feel sad, I wouldn't know why.

Our journey comes to an end some blocks away from what must be the neighborhood he lives in. "Sorry," he says even though he doesn't have to, "my dad's jus' really, uh. Well. You're kinda his age. He wouldn't like that in combination with the..." He gestures to his neck, gives me a knowing look.

I hand him the key to his cock cage from my pocket and he laughs at the sight, shoulders his backpack. I close the trunk with a heavy swing. "How old is your dad?"

He shrugs. "Forty-four or' somethin'."

I say, "Hm." I try not to let him see the surprise taking place in me.

Smart eyes tighten. "Uh. Why're you askin'?"

"Oh, I just wanted to know."

"Are you... younger than that?"

I unmistakably make my way back to the driver's door.

"Woah, wait - what, you are _older_?"

"Thank you for the wonderful time," I press as I swing back into the car, quickly close the door behind me. The kid is leaning into the passenger window though, all bulging back and teenage-wide eyes.

"Dude. You're like, my _grandpa_!"

"Have fun with the pictures, kid."

"Oh, I fuckin' _will_ , old man." I have him grinning again, loose and laughing and easy as he could be. I feel like a predator all over again, imagine this could be a movie where I would be starring as the ageing john and him as the sweet jailbait selling his cherry for a few dollar bills through the window of my car.

The air is different here in the suburbs, close to the town. Good for raising children with all the schools and necessities close by. Dean's canine sinks into his bottom lip for me and I feel silly for the urge to replace it with mine.

"Anyway," he starts and ends all at the same time, "thanks for everything. Had a helluva fun time with you guys. I'd say 'see you around' but I guess you're some freaking hermits in that cabin of yours, so... yeah." Half a wave before he pushes himself off and away from my car. "Bye."

I crane my neck only a little to bid him my, "Farewell."

I see him snickering in the rearview and quickly drop my gaze to start the engine when I see him turning around to check out if I am checking him out.

Night is starting to settle in when I pull up in our makeshift driveway. You will need the car tomorrow to get to work and me, well, I'll stay at home and think great thoughts. About life, about cancer. Whatever they will pay me for to write about, actually. I once wrote about the joys of owning a pet hamster. Never in my life have I ever seen such an animal.

You probably are upstairs as always, poring over your endless supply of books, being an asshole about them in the state's biggest newspaper. We get hate mail because of you sometimes, but that's okay - after all, you work me over the hardest when they dare to criticize your criticism.

I take the steps to our doorstep and think about life. About choices and jobs, about what it means to be an adult, when we start and when we end this miracle of our journey into fully developed and socialized human beings. I greet a passing bumblebee and come to the conclusion that I might have to consider my status of 'completion'.

I discard my clothes as soon as I am inside. It's my own damn house and I am naked in it whenever I want to be. It's summer and maybe I should shave again sometime, maybe that will help a little with the temperatures. I fumble for my pipe in the single shelf space of our coffee table and as I pull said utensils out, my fingertips graze something else.

Technology confuses me. It's too fast for my likings. If it wasn't for you, my dearest lover, who with more or less twenty years less on his birth certificate is still closer to today's advancements than I will probably ever be, well, I wouldn't even _own_ this phone. I wouldn't have discovered dating apps with you. My sex life would still be great, since I have you, but I wouldn't fall in love with new bondage gear on an irregular but yet expensive basis, wouldn't browse shops and lonely hearts columns and porn archives. I wouldn't have started reading blogs. I wouldn't have met Dean.

I have a new message. It's from half an hour ago and it's from 'impala67,18,lawrence_kansas'. The first words already being displayed prior to opening the text for real have me smiling, then laughing, then feeling kind of light-headed. I decide to join you upstairs. We have some talking to do.

_d: so... in case you ever wanna repeat that...?_

**Author's Note:**

> Needless to say: Don't be a fool like Dean and meet up with strangers from the internet in their private property in the lonesome mountains. Also: **do not have unprotected sex.** I just write it because it turns me on, but reality and fiction are two things!
> 
> Anyway. I hope you enjoyed this. If you are Christy and enjoyed this: I love you forever ♥.


End file.
